


See How They Rise: Year One of the Zombie Apocalypse

by Chrononautical



Series: Rise, Run, Survive [1]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blake and Rossi die to prove the situation is serious, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 00:47:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8381251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrononautical/pseuds/Chrononautical
Summary: “Really,” Garcia said, rolling her eyes from behind the safety of her computer screen, “It shouldn’t have taken the concentrated powers of the federal government a week to come up with the plot of a Romero film.”





	1. Outbreak

“You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.” –Mae West

Halloween was Spencer’s favorite holiday. Even if it weren’t the only holiday that a small child could manage to celebrate fully with no parental involvement, it would have been his favorite holiday. The idea of the supernatural appealed to him just as much as people disguising their faces with masks of the id. Spencer saw so many real horrors at work that the Halloween monsters were refreshing in their way. Until those monsters became just as real. 

The attack was highly organized and unbelievably well orchestrated, hitting dozens of major cities all over the world almost simultaneously. Despite the tremendous difficulty of on site investigation in a contaminated area, using the CCTV footage from the airports and other public locations the BAU—working as part of a hastily assembled task force with Homeland Security, the NSA, the DOD, and every other agency that issued a badge—was able to confirm that they were suicide attackers.

It was a stroke of luck that the cameras in JFK were able to pick up so many angles. After injecting himself with the virus in a corner just outside of a Starbucks, the unsub seemed to choose a crowded place to sit and wait patiently for death. What happened next was horrifying. He infected seven people who approached to offer assistance before heading for the bystanders. At least half of those infected died within moments of being attacked. By the time airport security responded, they had no way of knowing which of the infected was the unsub. They had no way of knowing how to halt the spread of infection. They had no way of knowing that no one in the concourse would be alive after twelve hours.

Rushing around after the fact was hardly effective. In the thirteen hours that it took to confirm even that much of the profile there were an estimated fifteen thousand infected in the United States. Because of the initial confusion around appropriate quarantining procedures, hospitals and first responders were hit the hardest. Unfortunately aid workers and law enforcement reacted the way they would have to a normal biological attack.

“Really,” Garcia said, rolling her eyes from behind the safety of her computer screen, “It shouldn’t have taken the concentrated powers of the federal government a week to come up with the plot of a Romero film.”

No one wanted to believe that it was possible, but the evidence from the Forensic Science Research and Training Center was conclusive. Tissue samples from the infected were all unvaryingly necrotic. The vector was infected saliva or other bodily fluids, but it needed to enter the bloodstream of an uninfected host to be effective. Some hypothesized that this was the basis of the biting behavior exhibited by those with the infection, with the seeming extreme hunger a byproduct similar to the thirst experienced by rabies patients. What was unarguable was that the infected would pursue and attempt to devour any living creature that came within range no matter how much bodily damage was inflicted. Even missing limbs seemed to be hardly a deterrent. Only destroying the brain stopped motor function.

They were zombies.

“Actually, the word zombie references a type of somnambulism caused by a very specific form of ritualized hypnosis. The modern literary depictions of actual ambulatory dead—“

“Spence,” JJ interrupted, “They’re zombies.”

Spencer Reid hadn’t been granted three doctorate degrees because he was stupid. He considered the obvious once the nature of the attack became clear. While most men developed schizophrenia between the ages of fifteen and twenty-four, a range he was well beyond at thirty-two, he did have a genetic predisposition. Late onset of the condition by individuals in their mid-forties and even older was not entirely unheard of. However, as the days turned into weeks he had to believe that a consistent delusion would be impossible to sustain for such an extended period. As any thinking person in a society would, he needed to look past the existential and deal with reality as he found it.

Reality was a little girl in a pink dress that tripped toward him down the hallway of a devastated evacuated hospital. Her skin was grey with pallor mortis and part of her jaw was missing. As she got closer, he saw the tache noire—the reddish brown of her eyes as it were—but he still couldn’t take the shot. Instinct saved him when she lunged forward to bite. Hopping backward he fired by reflex. One shot to the head at such a close range was enough. It was a very small head. She couldn’t have been more than six years old before she died. His mother would have reminded him that Mark Twain said reality could be beaten with enough imagination. 

“Yeah, kid,” Derek Morgan said softly when Spencer confided in him. “We’re all feeling a little crazy these days.”

It was reassuring and a little disturbing, but Morgan’s commiseration combined with the evidence of his senses let Spencer move beyond his feelings of dissociation. The BAU had plenty of work to do in conjunction with the Outreach and Communications Unit. Profiling the attack was one thing, but there didn’t seem to be danger of a second wave. Without additional data, there was no way of knowing if religion, nationalism, or revenge motivated such a large group of true believers. The responsible parties seemed content to let the zombies do the work, if indeed any of them were still left alive. The best thing the BAU could do was to profile public response and educate local law enforcement.

Seeing a walking corpse caused people to panic. Police, soldiers, and other trained professionals were most definitely not immune. Even if they didn’t flee in terror, aim was affected even more so than the usual human reluctance to shoot to kill. It was important to reach as many people as possible with the information they had and encourage rational preparedness rather than the alternative. With intermittent power outages across the country, disruptions in telecommunications, and intensive travel restrictions, just communicating was a difficult enough task. Spencer needed to push past his own self-indulgence and work with the team to establish proper protocol and training methods.

“Which is all well and good,” the Section Chief told Hotch, unaware that Spencer and Morgan were listening at the door, “But it isn’t as though we’ll be bringing anyone to the Academy for training during a time of crisis. We need every available agent in the field, experienced or not.”

“My team can – “

“Keep working on a way to manage public reaction when they’re here. The rioting is worse than the actual disease at this point. You have our full support, but we need you out there.”

“Then our families need to be here. You know what a hotbed the cities are right now. My people can’t do their jobs worrying about unprotected family members. It’s why we’re seeing such a high desertion rate for military bases across the country and internationally.”

“Fine. Anyone with family housed here in Quantico can have them moved to the Academy dormitory, if it’s that much of an issue. Your son included.”

When Washington DC fell, Spencer might have preferred to believe he was living in a fantasy. It was easy to forget that when a group of people panicked even the most intelligent individuals could be swept up in a terrified flight that did more harm than good. Worse than the loss of life – and the loss of the nation’s capital to a deadly terrorist attack – was that the innocent people who died weren’t simply casualties. If one considered the situation a war, then the vast majority of the fallen became soldiers on the enemy’s side. These soldiers had no effective intelligence, no advanced weaponry, and could be held off indefinitely by well-trained troops with good supplies, but the psychological impact of facing them was devastating.

After DC, they received word that New York, Mexico City, Delhi, Tokyo, Paris, Jakarta, Lagos, Beijing, Paris, Sau Paulo, London, Shanghai, Calcutta, Madrid, Los Angeles, Cairo, and other cities that had been the sites of an initial attack had experienced similar abandonment. It was most definitely a worst-case scenario. Using geographical and statistical analysis, Spencer was able to compile the reports into a low estimate that he hesitated to share because of the effect it would necessarily have on morale.

Two months after the attack, there were at least five million infected moving about the continental United States and the living population had been more than decimated by Spencer’s most conservative calculations. What hit even harder was seeing the name of his mother’s hospital on the list of facilities overrun by the infected. There was no way to confirm her as one of the casualties, but the chance of any individual escaping a closed building full of zombies was roughly one in seventy two hundred.

Winter should have been a respite, at least in northern climates, as the cold significantly slowed, sometimes even freezing, the reanimated, but with the crumbling infrastructure of civilization, it was anything but a blessing. The lack of food, heat, sanitation, and adequate medical facilities killed just as surely as any virus.

“We’ll be okay,” Hotch said, though Quantico wasn’t the sort of base designed to withstand a prolonged siege. He had brought his son Jack inside the Academy. Maybe he didn’t believe a siege would come. Certainly the Virginia winter was unlikely to be cold enough to freeze the infected for long, and experimental data showed that the undead were able to reanimated when thawed within a week of initial freezing. 

Still, when he spoke with the full force of confidence, Spencer couldn’t doubt him. Spencer privately held the theory that the FBI Academy was doing so well compared to the reports they were hearing out of other facilities because of Hotch. Allowing agents and trainees to bring in endangered family members had been controversial, the higher ups hadn’t been in favor of the idea, but Hotch had been smart enough to see the big picture. With children and family members safe inside the secured facility, the FBI Academy didn’t have any problems with unreported bites and fewer agents went AWOL. Fortunately, Aaron was unlikely to face future reprimand once things returned to normal. They received retroactive orders from the POTUS command center to take in what civilians they could and hold ground for as long as they could. Other Quantico buildings did the same.

Unfortunately, resupply was intermittent at best and without a significant reduction in the number of mouths to feed, Spencer’s calculations indicated that they couldn’t hold out independently for more than six months. They lost contact with POTUS and any other centralized authority well before then.

“We’ll make a quick supply run of our own,” Rossi said. “Just over to Turner Field. Garcia got them on the line and they just got a load of MREs. They’ll make an off the books trade for some computer equipment. Apparently their control tower took some damage last week. Unreported infection in the building, we could have lost the airfield.”

“Still,” JJ said, “A trade?”

“They should just give it to us,” Garcia agreed.

“We’re all on the same team,” Hotch said firmly. “If they need computer equipment, then we have it to spare.”

“I’m sure the shipment was meant for us.” Rossi wouldn’t let it go. “Our remaining leaders know that we already took in half the CIA and a bunch of doctors from the CDC. We aren’t sitting on our hands over here; they’re working on a cure.”

“Actually,” Spencer had to say, “a cure for the condition would be completely impossible. The infected are unquestionably dead. I think it’s far more likely that they’re working on a vaccination or an antiviral that could make an effective treatment immediately after exposure.”

“How are they doing?” JJ sounded so hopeful. Henry and Will were safe with the other civilians on site, but Spencer had still noticed a significant down tick in the number of words she said per meeting, the percentage of her food she ate, and a general withdrawal from physical contact. It had been weeks since he’d seen her smile.

“If we have the resources, I’d say there’s a good chance. We know that the virus was an engineered attack by an extremist group. Apparently the CIA recovered records of the initial work which will help the CDC immensely.” Throwing caution to the wind, Spencer added, “It’s unlikely, but the initial engineers may have already developed something along those lines while making the virus.”

Later, Spencer wondered how much those reckless words, that false hope, influenced Hotch’s decision to send for the supplies immediately. The section chief wanted them at once, but Hotch had no reason to object. And no one else to send.

Ordering her trainees to carry and rearrange computer equipment, Garcia was in her element for the first time since they started rationing power from the backup generators. Spencer realized belatedly that most of the team had been showing signs of fatigue similar to JJ’s depression. Morale improved markedly and universally with the arrival of the CDC personnel.

“I for one will be damn glad to get out of here for a minute, even if we are just heading for an airplane to pick up government eggs.” People responded to Will’s Louisiana twang just as much as they did to Morgan’s smile or a rare, approving nod from Hotch. The agents loading the SUVs all smiled at one another and continued efficiently. “Maybe they’ll even have something for me to do over there, instead of moving boxes and standing around outside shooting at strays.”

“You too good for watch duty, Officer LaMontagne?” For a moment, with her hands on her hips and her hair twisted up in an elaborate braid, Garcia looked just as she would have on a normal day at the office before everything changed. Wheeling on a helpless agent she scolded him mercilessly. “Oh honey, you’re really planning to stack my servers like Jenga blocks, aren’t you? One sharp turn and thousands of dollars worth of irreplaceable equipment is just bits of silicone and crunched up plastic.”

Fieldwork had never been Spencer’s favorite part of the job. He didn’t belong on a supply run, he was best suited to analysis, but Morgan thought it would be good for him to get out as well. Wondering if he was clinging because his job was all that Spencer had left was counterproductive and could only lead to self-doubt, so he ignored his feelings of foreboding. Yet another mistake.

A team of agents scouted the route before they set out. The marines out of Quantico had been keeping the roads clear, and the agents reported that it was still just a twenty-minute drive. There were some jokes made about clear roads and caravans that Spencer assumed were a reference to the popular culture zeitgeist and ignored. His reminder that his seat could be better filled by a more action oriented field agent was also ignored.

“Look, kid, I get it. We all get it,” Rossi said. “You don’t want to leave.”

“It’s not that. I just think you’d be better off with a marine in my seat. Or someone more like Morgan.”

“No one’s like me, pretty boy. Don’t worry. I’ve got your back.”

“Reid, we aren’t dealing with an intelligent enemy anymore. Zombies don’t know when a good time to stage an attack would be. Zombies don’t know anything, and they can’t outrun cars. Hell, they can’t outrun people. If it came to that, I bet I could race one from here to Quantico on foot and win, and I ain’t exactly an Olympic sprinter.”

Forced to concede the point because everyone else was so excited about leaving, Spencer helped Morgan arrange the most ideal lineup of vehicles and agents for the convoy. The drivers were willing to take his advice on that point, at least, though Morgan’s eye for tactics was arguably more useful.

“I miss radio stations,” Blake complained, sliding into the passenger seat of the second SUV. It was the right position for level, experienced agents. “You’d think there’d be at least one Christian Slater wannabe out there pumping up the volume with the FCC gone.”

“I’ll put on a CD,” Rossi offered.

“Not the same thing,” she argued. Spencer didn’t get to hear the difference as Rossi started the engine and slowly pulled out. He had to hurry to catch his ride at the back of the convoy with Morgan and Garcia.

So close to the tail end, Spencer never saw the deer that the lead vehicle slammed into, veering off road into the trees. He didn’t know if Rossi, Blake, or the three cadets in the back seat hesitated at all before leaping out to help. Removed as he was, it was easy to act according to protocol, not adrenaline.

Morgan stopped to maintain position relative to the rest of the convoy. Hearing gunfire, Morgan and Spencer slipped out of the car to assist while Garcia slid seamlessly into the driver’s seat. Rossi was on the ground, dead, and the firing line was blasting away at the zombies swarming over the accident site from the tree line. Obviously the noise and the blood had attracted them.

Blake pulled free from the tangle. Spencer could hardly believe that she hadn’t been struck by a stray bullet standing in front of the line of fire that way, but miraculously she looked mostly uninjured. Her left leg was torn and bleeding, but he was sure that they could keep the zombies back, get her into one of the trucks, and treat her injuries. She was in shock, though, moving slowly, and it was a few moments before she heard her name and met his eyes. Staring at him, something seemed to click for her.

Instantly her service weapon was out and pressed against her own jaw. There was a shot he couldn’t possibly have heard over the surrounding cacophony. A marionette with cut strings would have crumpled, not rolled backward toward the zombies with the recoil of her gun. Blake was human and her death wasn’t a metaphor. Spencer remembered her numerous, strident recommendations that the infected be denied medical treatment. Attempts to treat bite wounds almost invariably ended with a deadly attack on the aid worker when injured succumbed. He had accused her of lacking compassion. He knew better.

Within half an hour, more than twenty-five magazines of ammunition had been spent and eleven people had been lost, but the road was clear. In addition to the nine people from the lead cars, a pair of eager agents from the DITU had separated from the formation and been bitten. After some debate over the politics of abandoning the run, Morgan decided that a field cremation was in order for the zombies while their lost team members would be returned to the Academy for burial according to their wishes.

It took two hours to build a pyre and another three after the makeshift service to watch it burn low. A detail of two agents stayed behind to keep an eye on the smoldering remains. The last thing they needed was a forest fire, but it seemed disrespectful to douse the remaining flames and, more practically, the only water on hand was insufficient. Presumably the airfield could wait, but it didn’t make sense to scrap everything. As it was, instead of arriving at noon, they were six hours late with only a few brief radio calls by way of explanation.

The marines took it in stride. A major in perfectly pressed, full dress uniform introduced herself as Tamara Freeman and shook hands with Morgan. She was as military as anyone Spencer had ever had occasion to meet before the attack, but her position on the base seemed to be more coordinator than anything. Escorting the team to a small conference room in an outbuilding, she made a quick introduction before detailing a group of marines to start transferring supplies.

“Thank you very much for delivering this equipment. As pleased as I am to meet all of you, we’re also going to want you to contact your people and have any and all of your research scientists transferred here.” 

“Excuse me?” Morgan sounded highly affronted. Spencer couldn’t worry about him, not if she was right about needing their personnel. 

“You found the lab that engineered the virus.” It was too much to hope for. Spencer narrowed his gaze at Major Freeman, but he noticed JJ crossing her arms over her chest. At his back, he could feel Morgan bristling.

“If by us, you mean a Seal Team, then yes. Unfortunately, there was only one remaining scientist and they couldn’t take him alive, but we have everything. All of their samples, papers, and computers are on site here. Unfortunately, the data is heavily encrypted and the papers are written in some kind of code.”

“How long have you had this?” Morgan demanded. “We could have been pooling resources. You should have requested assistance.”

“Three weeks.” There was no hesitation in her tone, no hint of prevarication.

Morgan stopped posturing and the rest of the team relaxed. “How?”

“The USS George Washington is still at sea, though we’ve lost contact with the Bush, the Truman, the Lincoln, and almost everyone else. Air travel may be near impossible these days with the towers down, but the Washington can make upward of thirty knots. It was tasked to the area based on your profile. All of our resources were tasked toward this from day one. Everyone’s resources were tasked to this from day one, but the CIA got lucky. Well, lucky enough. They spent the whole way here working the data, but they have nothing so far.”

“Then we’d better get to work,” Spencer said, finished with the preamble.

“Do you promise you haven’t been bitten,” she said. The tilt of her head indicated a teasing affect, but Spencer didn’t have any desire to socialize.

“No, Blake was bitten and she shot herself in the head.”

“Sorry,” Morgan said quickly. “She was a member of our team. It happened on the way over here. That’s why we were late.”

“Yes, it’s very tragic,” Spencer agreed, “but Garcia and I should really get started. If there is a key to a possible vaccination in those notes, any delay could mean thousands of lives.”

Major Freeman shrugged. “Do you speak Tartar?”

“I will.”


	2. Contagion

“To acquire knowledge, one must study; but to acquire wisdom, one must observe.” -Marilyn Vos Savant 

As promised, Spencer was put under guard with Garcia and the other analysts in an empty conference room. Depending on level of exposure and weight class it could take between five minutes and twelve hours for infection to present. Fortunately, they didn’t need to sit idle. Although he was already familiar with the basics of the Russian and Turkish languages, at his request Spencer was given a stack of novels hastily collected from speakers on the base. The novels themselves were not exactly high literature – a few thrillers and some romances – but they were a nice refresher course in syntax and idiom. Unfortunately, all that could be had in the desired language was a Russian – Tartar dictionary in poor condition. Reading it cover to cover was useful, but it could hardly give him a feel for the language. 

“So what?” Kevin asked, obviously disgruntled and frustrated with whatever he was trying to do with the computer parts in front of him. “You speak Tartar now?”

“No of course not,” Spencer said factually. “I don’t have Emily’s ear for languages. I can’t speak the language any better than I could this morning. I can read it. Hopefully.”

“Right. Agent Prentiss. If one member of the BAU dream team isn’t the best in the world, you can bet someone else on the team has it covered.” He was bitter in a way that didn’t seem precisely merited by the situation.

“Just ask for help,” Garcia snapped, snatching his screwdriver and doing something to the parts that presumably fixed them. “This,” she added, gesturing in a way that seemed to indicate everything about Kevin, “This is why we broke up.”

“I’m not a hardware guy. Sue me.”

“Have you heard from her?” Spencer interrupted, hoping to forestall a lover’s quarrel.

Garcia shook her head slowly. “Not in a month. I told you she was in the Ukraine, right? Spreading the good word.”

“Yeah. Guess I was hoping she’d checked in since then.” Spencer had actually been hoping that she might decide to come back to the team, but he’d been hoping that since the day she left.

“You’d be surprised how dependent our telecommunications systems are on someone, somewhere going to work at a power plant.”

Spencer allowed himself the smile even though ninety seven percent of the United Stated didn’t even have power for anything except emergency services and the situation was even worse in many other countries.

“Not something you have to worry about,” Kevin grumbled.

“Well yes, Kevin, I do have to worry about it. Because my friend is God knows where, with God knows who, probably surrounded by zombies.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like any of the rest of us have even been allowed to turn on a computer for the last month. At least your friends could contact you.”

“For the last time, Kevin, it wasn’t special treatment! We couldn’t go completely incommunicado and Hotch thought I was the best person for the job.”

“You mean Hotchner thought the rest of us were a waste of electricity.”

“Well we don’t,” Major Freeman said casually entering the conference room. “If you would care to collect your things, I can show you to your billets. Sounds like it was a long night and you could use the rest.”

Dimming the lights at night and only using them when absolutely necessary had been standard practice at the Academy for so long that Spencer was astounded to realize that it was already six am. Twelve hours in quarantine flew past when he had a project worthy of his attention.

Slinging his go bag over his shoulder, picking up his satchel, and stacking the books according to probable owner was the work of a moment. It took the technicians somewhat longer to stow their more impressive assortment of equipment to be brought to a more permanent workplace.

His assigned billet was the size of a dorm room closet with bunk beds, foot lockers under the bed, and a steel sink neatly arranged so that a human being could just manage to squeeze in as well, if he was careful about it.

“You’ll be bunking with SSA Morgan, in accordance with the preferences sent ahead.”

Spencer laughed a little. “Not his preferences.”

“Is there a problem?” the major asked solicitously. “We want you to be comfortable here.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“Doctor Reid doesn’t sleep much,” Garcia elaborated for him, “and he will talk your ear off about a case—three am or not—but I double checked the preferences with Derek before I sent them to you. He’d rather be in a position to keep an eye on Reid if anything happens than get a full night’s sleep. Because that, my friends, is what heroes are all about: self sacrifice.”

Blake might have agreed. Spencer preferred Morgan’s interpretation of the concept. Stuffing his go-bag under the bottom bunk, he hurried to catch up with the others. They were all given similar rooms, though they seemed to be rooming with each other grouped by gender.

“Was there something else that I could do for you, Dr. Reid?” The major had a cool politeness to her tone that suggested he had been fed and watered while in quarantine and should wait patiently until she wanted him again. Spencer chose to ignore the social cue.

“I’d like to see the papers you have so that I can get started.”

“You don’t want to get some sleep? It might be the last time you have a room to yourself for a while. Agent Morgan had access to the beds in our quarantine facility.”

“So did we.” A cot had been placed in a corner of the conference room while Spencer and the techs prepped for the work to come.

“None of you used it.”

“Yeah, but like Garcia said, I sleep sixty percent less than the national average. Missing one night is fairly insignificant for me.”

“Dr. Reid, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but don’t you think it would be better to start with fresh eyes.”

“Not at all. Are you familiar with the Russian chemist Dmitri Mendeleev?”

“I can’t say that I am.” The way she shifted her weight and sighed a little was familiar. Spencer truncated his anecdote as much as possible while retaining the moral.

“Mendeleev created the periodic table of elements in 1869, but the problem of classifying and arranging an informative grouping was something he’d been working on for years. The answer—the table—came to him in its complete form as a dream.”

“You think you’ll break a code created by the most effective terrorist organization ever to exist in a dream?”

“I think that a series of fascinating experiments by Dijksterhuis and Nordgren demonstrated that deliberation without attention can actually lead to more effective decision making in complex, multi-variable situations. I also think that a mind can’t work on a problem it hasn’t seen.”

She shrugged, another familiar gesture, and led him down the hall to a lab. “Our medical research facility is in an independent building to limit the risk of contagion, but that refrigerator works and those vials are live. The CIA took detailed photographs of the original laboratory and postulated that the key to the code could be somewhere in the arrangement.”

“No luck?” It was a rhetorical question. The lab was clean and well organized, but lacked any personal items or obsessive patterns that might suggest mental habits that could carry over to something like journaling. Even the lone woman working was task oriented, unless her haphazard bun was ornamentation.

“None. Doctor Park, this is Dr. Spencer Reid. He’s here to help with the journals.” The journals were the only objects in the lab that didn’t appear to be made of stainless steel and glass. Even Dr. Park was wearing a starched, white lab coat. Unlined leather notebooks were a little out of place, but they were neatly ordered on a steel shelf, safely out of the way.

“May, please,” she said, offering her hand. Spencer took it, resisting the urge to take up one of the journals instantly. “You must be the new blood. FBI, right? So it’s really Agent?”

“Spencer is fine.” The bun was by no means unattractive, but it didn’t meet the standards of a military dress code. That coupled with her other small rebellions against formality – the pink pocket protector, the beaded necklace, and the lime green frames on her glasses – made one thing clear. “You aren’t a marine, I assume.”

“I worked for the CDC when there was one,” she confirmed. “I put in ten years on infectious diseases, for all the good it does me now. A number of us were evacuated to Robin’s Air Force Base when Atlanta fell. They were able to get us here when Quantico sent word about the find.”

“What do you think of this facility?”

“That’s for you social scientists to figure out,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. “I’m only interested in the bugs. The strain here has the same inexplicable necrotizing properties as the infection that’s running rampant, but it’s significantly less virulent. I’m hoping to use it to manufacture an antigen.”

Promising. Spencer was willing to remove the journals and work elsewhere, but Park told him that the other CDC virologists on site had samples of the earlier strains and were working on them in the isolated research building. Much like the social scientists she derided, Park liked the feeling of working in a replica of the original lab. She was happy to share whatever inspiration the space could offer with him, so he got to work.

The first thing Spencer realized, perusing the journals, was that they had a single author. The handwriting was consistent and it fit the fact that only one scientist had been found in the laboratory by the assault team. He’d been identified as Ildar Vetrov – a medical doctor with an extensive history of humanitarianism – and Spencer could only regret the death of his expertise. Unfortunately, he was highly organized individual and there were no evident cues to his behavior to be gleaned from the environment.

The second thing Spencer realized, taking in the number of journals and the scribbled Cyrillic, was how very long cracking the code would take. A code intuitive enough for a scientist to journal fluently in was promising, except there was no indication that Dr. Vetrov ever intended someone else to read his work. Which meant his code – even if it was nothing more than simple substitutions – only needed to make sense to him. Added to the fact that no one on the base could speak the scientist’s language fluently, Spencer knew it could take him months to get something useful out of the journals. He missed Emily.

The gentlemen from the CIA – and they were all men – had plenty to say about their own progress in decoding the papers. Mostly, that they considered the task impossible, and that they had already tried everything worth trying. Brisk and unhelpful, Spencer was glad when they stopped checking in after a few days. He was equally glad when Hotch, JJ, and the medical personnel they had at the academy relocated to the marine base. It was more defensible and it made sense to combine resources, though he didn’t have much time to visit with them. 

Since Garcia and the other analysts were working down the hall in room full of computers, Park was his only company during the day. Even she spent long hours away, presumably at the other research facility, though Spencer didn’t pry. He was happy to look in on her ongoing experiments when he needed a break from fruitless decoding. Frankly, it was his ideal working environment. A miraculous find in a crowded military base, especially considering they’d been living in each other’s pockets almost since the day of the attack.

“And since Morgan lets me have the bottom bunk, I’m actually more comfortable here than at the Academy.” Most of Spencer’s meals were whatever he could grab from the mess hall in the morning and take with him, but JJ insisted that the team meet for a dinner shift every three days.

“Skipping right past the fact that your ideal workplace has test tubes full of human blood and live virus, I’m pretty sure Derek isn’t letting you have the bottom bunk, Spence.”

“I’m sorry to tell you this, JJ, but you aren’t actually privy to any special information about our sleeping arrangements. Yes, he does.”

“Top bunk’s better,” Will drawled. He looked tired, but the corners of his eyes were crinkled with his own dry brand of amusement.

“Everyone wants the top bunk,” JJ confirmed.

“That’s ridiculous. The bottom bunk is clearly superior. I don’t have to clamber up a ladder to get into bed every night.”

“No you just have to worry about getting stepped on when Derek does,” Garcia said. “Not that your feline grace and superhuman dexterity don’t mitigate the concern, gorgeous, but everyone missteps on occasion.”

“’S all right, baby girl, I get it. I’m glad you’re okay with it, Reid, but I definitely did not want bottom bunk.”

“Come on. Hotch? Tell me that you at least understand the appeal of just falling into bed.”

“Sorry, pal. Top bunk.”

“Can Henry and I have bunk beds?” Jack interrupted after a quick whispered conversation with the smaller boy.

“And which of you wants the clearly superior bottom bed?”

“We can share the top bed!”

“I want to climb the ladder,” Henry added in his quiet, half whispered way.

Everyone laughed. Spencer didn’t mind being the butt of a joke. Not after everyone spent the first half of dinner trying desperately not to complain about living conditions.

“We’ll stick with our sleeping bag camp for now, buddy,” Hotch said. They were housed with the rest of the refugees to accommodate the children until space became available in the barracks. Offering his bed again in front of the children would force the issue while Hotch and JJ both had good reasons for refusing, so Spencer had nothing to say. It seemed for a moment that no one did.

“How are the journals coming on your end, boy genius?” Garcia asked, breaking the silence. “I have to tell you the encryption on the files is a monster. We are making next to no headway.”

“Well, I haven’t made much progress on a translation, but I did profile the handwriting. The small print says he’s methodical, the connected writing shows that he’s a complex thinker, nothing surprising, really, beyond the fact that we now know all of this was orchestrated by a single unsub.”

Forcing a smile, JJ changed the subject to pickup soccer on the training yard before anyone else could offer any thoughts. The look she shot him clearly suggested his work was not an appropriate topic for dinner conversation.

So Spencer didn’t talk about it, but he kept on working. When he did finally crack the code, which was really just an original form of Cyrillic short hand coupled with the relatively obscure language, the journals were illuminating. Not the earliest ones. Vetrov developed his unique writing method during medical school, but Spencer had no way of knowing when the doctor first encountered the virus. He had to start at the beginning and read the whole story.

Nothing about the early years was particularly surprising. Vetrov was a mediocre student with a classic narcissistic personality. Detecting the misanthropy in the earliest writing was a little difficult as much of it could be attributed to feeling underappreciated by his peers. After practicing for a few years at a typical state hospital, he thought he might find notoriety in humanitarian work. Journaling clearly provided him with an outlet as he treated various mosquito borne illnesses in tropical climates, but he devolved into long rants about ingratitude. He didn’t just look down on his patients, Vetrov slowly lost respect for everyone else he encountered. There were entire screeds on restaurants, crowded streets, hospital conditions, and any other place where people gathered. 

He started killing after the death of his mother in a car accident, blaming overcrowded city conditions for the wreck.

When a doctor decided to kill it was always bad, but Spencer was astonished by Vetrov’s patience. Traveling the world as a humanitarian, he killed six or seven people a year, contenting himself the rest of the time with patients that didn’t survive. If Vetrov hadn’t documented the murders himself, if he’d been content to go on murdering with lethal injection, Spencer doubted he would ever have been caught. Of course, escalation was only a matter of time with a serial offender.

Encountering the virus in a dense, remote jungle was nothing less than providence as far as Vetrov was concerned. He had no interest in determining the origin of the virus, but the species-specific host range delighted him. There were no undead monkeys out there as far as Vetrov knew. The journals started to show frustration pretty quickly with the slow rate of infection. Apparently the earliest strain of the virus didn’t kill it only reanimated an infected person after death. His experiments were careful and utterly secret, but he had plenty of human test subjects in his impoverished patients. It didn’t take a brilliant mind to select for virulence and culture the most rapid reproducers.

“This is all fascinating, Doctor Reid,” Major Freeman said in a tone that suggested she did not find his results so at all, “but have you found anything useful?”

“I found a set of equations without explanation that I believe may be the key derivation function and a biometric word list. It’s definitely a Russian equivalent of PGP. I thought it might help Garcia.”

“Oh my God, Reid! That would be so helpful. You have no idea how hard it is to decrypt a self-contained box like this! But won’t it just be more records of his experiments? You were saying he didn’t really know what he was doing.”

“At least it might give us a record of his victims.” Spencer wasn’t sure about that. Vetrov had a few notes about his experiments in the journals, enough to suggest that there was bleed over from the computer records, but he didn’t mention names at all in his more recent writings. “They deserve to remembered.”

“Do you have anything to tell us who he was working for?”

The major wasn’t wrong to be concerned by the possibility, but everything in the journals suggested that Vetrov was working alone. He hated people too much by the end to work with anyone.

“The prospect of mass murder definitely excited him, but Vetrov was also gratified by contact with his victims, especially the feeling of superiority conferred by his status as a doctor.”

“Is that a no?”

“He wasn’t working for anyone, Major. He wasn’t working with anyone, either. The carriers he sent around the world were literally delivery men. He paid them a pittance to deliver what he called a delicate medical package, gave them a plane ticket, and told them that they’d receive the rest of their money upon delivery. Oh, and just to be on the safe side, they should take a preventative before the transfer. Only there was nothing in the brief cases and no one to meet them at the other end of the line. It took extremely careful planning, but in the end, he essentially bought thirty suicide bombers for less than two thousand US dollars apiece.”

Ever forthright, Garcia cut straight to the salient point. “Who would be that stupid?”

“A surprising number of sophomore pre-med students who were very interested in helping the good work of his organization. Remember, Vetrov had a decent reputation as a philanthropist and, though a narcissist, was apparently a charismatic individual. Med students were also a good target because they were unlikely to question his instructions and comfortable – or desirous of being comfortable – with self injection. As far as I can tell only five of them didn’t set off infections: Seoul, Vancouver, Dallas, Moscow, and St. Petersburg. Though as you’ll recall all of those cities were infected within the first twelve hours because air traffic was improperly quarantined. I do wonder – and obviously there’s no way of knowing – if there mightn’t have been some lingering nationalist sentiment contributing to the Russian failures. Not that he did anything consciously, his writings make it clear that he hated his own countrymen just as much as anyone.”

“Dr. Reid.”

Spencer returned to his premise out of deference to the major’s limited time. “Vetrov was definitely working alone. There was no larger conspiracy, government, or religion. I would advise focusing our efforts on dealing with the fallout from his first attack. Given his death, I don’t expect another from the same source.”

Arching a single well-sculpted eyebrow Major Freeman made her skepticism clear. “This was the most devastating terrorist attack in the history of the human race. You’re positive about these translations?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Given this information I don’t think there’s an enemy force out there somewhere hoarding a cure.”

She sighed in disappointment. Of course that was what she wanted. That was what everyone wanted. “Well,” the major said after a moment, “Thank you for your work, doctor. You’ve obviously done what you could.”

“Actually,” Dr. Park interjected, “He’s also been helping me with my experiments here in his downtime.”

Major Freeman blinked. “I was under the impression that you were not a medical doctor.”

“Oh, I’m not, but one of my PhDs is in chemistry, and given my familiarity with forensic pathology, I can manage a little virology if needed.”

“Fine. Ms. Garcia, see if you can get anything more helpful from the computer files. Dr. Reid, Dr. Park will get you access to the research facility. I look forward to seeing what you can do.”


	3. Infection

“Monsters exist, but they are too few in number to be truly dangerous. More dangerous are the common men, the functionaries ready to believe and to act without asking questions.” – Primo Levi

The research facility was a repurposed command education center, not a medical clinic, and it was heavily guarded by marines. Beyond those limitations, however, the equipment was state of the art and power wasn’t rationed in any way. Every resource that a researcher could possibly want was available. Spencer was used to working with extremely muscular men staring at him, so the guards didn’t disturb him. It wasn’t much different from being called in to consult with a local police department, only instead of a serial killer, he was looking at a killer virus. 

Catching up was easy. The usual ego clashes that happened when more than thirty scientists gathered to work on a problem were completely absent. Spencer was unable to determine whether this was the result of fatigue, depression, or a true desire to work together for the common good, but he appreciated it. Everyone was kind enough, offering to share notes and letting him make a little space for his own experiments. In turn, he was more than happy to oversee lab work when someone else wanted a break and offer helpful notes whenever he could. 

Given Spencer’s own preference for a cooperative rather than an adversarial work environment, as well as his involvement in his own experiments, it took him a while to notice the stilted nature of the group’s dynamic. Such an overt formalism should not have been a surprise. Most of the scientists had been working on the problem for over nine months. All of them had lost colleagues and friends to the epidemic. Almost none of them had any clue where their families were or what had happened to them. Everyone was under stress, and it was their job to cure the world. For a while, Spencer thought that was all there was to it. 

“Aren’t you done yet,” Doctor Anders sneered. Although there was plenty of lab space and state of the art equipment, the facility only had one electron microscope. Spencer didn’t think there would have been one in a Marine OTS, so it must have been salvaged and moved from somewhere else in Quantico like most of their resources. Still, no damage had been done to the delicate appliance and it was one of the most valuable tools in their arsenal. It made sense that a queue to use it would form, but the entitlement in Doctor Anders’s voice was startlingly rude. 

“Doctor Bundt and I have only been down here for an hour,” Spencer said, as mildly as he could. “We still have a few more samples to go through. I’d be happy to stop by your lab to let you know when we’re done.” 

“Doctor Bundt is wasting everyone’s time with this back tracking basic research bullshit,” Anders spat. “And she should absolutely feel free to keep going at it, but she can do it upstairs with a candle jar. Why don’t the two of you go together and sing Kumbaya along the way? The big boys need access to the real equipment.” 

“Big boys?” Bundt arched an eyebrow. “I was inventing new ways to inoculate test samples while you were still in diapers, Doctor.” 

“Believe me,” Anders said, blatantly tracing the age lines on Bundt’s elderly face with his eyes, “No one doubts that for a second.” 

Bundt took a deep breath. “Look, we both know the lab rules,” she said reasonably. “Doctor Reid and I are in the middle of taking readings. We won’t be more than another hour, and we’ll let you know when we’re done.” 

Her calm aspect pushed him over the edge. Snatching the samples from the table, Anders threw them on the floor, smashing them in an uncharacteristic rage. “There,” he screamed. “Now you’re done!” 

Immediately Spencer put himself between the man and Doctor Bundt. He was unarmed and not sure what he would do if Anders escalated his violence, but he was not remotely willing to let an older woman be the target of it. Instead of escalating, however, Anders seemed to collapse in on himself, staring down at the shattered samples and shaking. There was no live virus there, no chance of contamination, but perhaps he didn’t know that. Bundt was staring at the floor covered with broken glass and leaking fluid too. For her those samples represented almost a week of work lost, so when she teared up and rushed out of the room, Spencer followed. He didn’t bother to stop to reassure Anders.

Bundt calmed down fairly quickly and showed an admirable pragmatism about returning to work and redoing her samples. Spencer still took an almost vindictive pleasure in detailing the incident for Major Freeman when she stopped by to hear their side of the story. He didn’t go quite so far as to suggest that Doctor Anders might have thrown live samples on the floor in some kind of dissociative state, but he didn’t bother to hide his suspicion that Doctor Anders didn’t know exactly what Doctor Bundt’s experiments entailed before destroying them. Spencer continued to feel slightly pleased with himself when Anders wasn’t in his lab the following morning.

“Poor bastard,” Doctor Park murmured as they passed it. 

“A break from the lab will be good for him,” Spencer said, feeling a little guilty at her tone. “We’re working with the most dangerous virus ever to affect the human race. Everyone needs to be able to keep a cool head.” 

“Yeah,” Park said. “A break.”

“Sometimes disciplinary action is necessary to maintain a well ordered work environment.” 

“I don’t disagree, but I had to spend three days in solitary confinement on quarter rations the first time I mouthed off to a Marine.” 

Spencer stopped walking. “That seems like an overreaction.”

Park took his arm and pulled him along at a casual pace. “You didn’t notice before? Discipline is pretty important around here.” 

“Discipline sure, but that sounds like you were tortured for a relatively minor infraction.” 

“It’s standard practice, but you’re right about it keeping a well ordered work environment. I haven’t slipped up at all since my little break from the labs. I’ve heard some real horror stories from the others. At least the general won’t do any permanent damage to any of us. He wants to find a cure.” 

Spencer had heard the marines talk about the general in awed voices. They seem to credit his leadership rather than the well fortified location, adequate supplies, and well trained personnel with their continued survival. Hotch, Morgan, and JJ had all been very careful whenever he was mentioned at the twice weekly gathering that JJ called family dinner. Garcia had been less careful, calling him Herr Schmidt, His Majesty, and Our Glorious Leader on various occasions. Without knowing much about General Smith before the outbreak, Spencer didn’t actually have enough information to speculate about a break with reality, but he couldn’t help hypothesizing. When Anders returned to the lab in a wheelchair with two surgically broken legs, Spencer stopped thinking and went to Hotch. 

“I had hoped it was affecting you less in the labs,” Hotch said. He looked thin and tired. Spencer couldn’t pinpoint the exact date when that had become normative. 

“My concern is that it is.” 

Laughing mirthlessly, Hotch said, “Then I suspect you’re correct to be concerned.” 

“And no one is addressing the blatant violation of eighth amendment rights?” 

“For a genius, it took you quite a while to notice that we’re living under martial law.”

“Maybe we should head back to the academy. It isn’t that far and we’ll be more careful this time. We have plenty of equipment there. Any cost to efficiency will be more than offset by alleviating our safety concerns. Knowing that the other scientists have been operating under the threat of torture this whole time, I’m astounded that they’ve been working as effectively as they have.”

“The academy fell weeks ago.” 

Processing Hotch’s words is impossible. Spencer simply doesn’t understand him.

“I’m sorry. I thought you knew.” 

“How?”

“When we discovered that there was early data and a better hope for researching a cure here, most of our cure oriented scientists and remaining medical personnel came here.”

“I know, that’s why you brought Jack and JJ brought Will and Henry.” 

“Exactly. All of the children and most of the civilians were brought here in hopes that a cure or a vaccine would be found. It’s a microcosm of what we saw with city evacuations and the swamping of medical facilities, though in this case the marines were able to handle the sudden influx because of their own gradual loss in numbers.”

“That still doesn’t explain why we would lose the academy. Your analogy lacks a key variable; there was no infection present. Remaining agents should have been able to hold the building indefinitely given the ammunition supply.” 

“Reid. You aren’t listening. Everyone with hope for the future left.”

Suddenly, Hotch’s explanation made a horrific kind of sense. 

“Yeah,” Hotch said, averting his eyes and folding his hands in a show of empathetic body language. “There was a predictable rash of suicides followed by a few too many unreported bites. An estimated seventy-five percent of remaining personnel were converted. The marines have since swept the building. General Smith believes in eradicating the infected, which is a sound policy. Morgan, JJ, Will, and I have all joined regular patrols to sweep buildings and keep the area around the base safe.” 

“I knew that much,” Spencer said, feeling as though he hadn’t known anything in months. 

Hotch’s hand was warm on his shoulder. “This isn’t easy, and there are no good choices, but for the moment I think we’re safest here. The general’s command is the last secure area in this part of Virginia, as far as we can tell. If I feel like any member of the team is in danger at any point, we’ll make another choice.” 

Spencer thanked Hotch and kept working, but he also kept worrying. Thoughts of JJ being bitten on a patrol and making the same choice Blake haunted his dreams. Running tests on a suspicious protein strain gave him a sense of paranoia that the marines watching without understanding his work would think he was slacking off. Sometimes he was slacking off because thoughts of Henry being deemed a waste of resources would intrude. Spencer had seen a lot of things in his time with the FBI, and for some reason his brain wanted him to imagine all of them happening to that helpless little boy. 

In the middle of the night he kicked Morgan’s mattress. 

“If you are trying to make a point about the bottom bunk right now, kid, I will end you.” Morgan’s voice was a low growl, but it wasn’t the same voice he used when he was really threatening someone. Spencer had known him long enough to be able to discern the difference. “I have a patrol in five hours.” 

“What if they decide Garcia’s work in analysis and communications isn’t worth the returns on electricity as the general’s policy becomes more insular?” Spencer blurted out the words like a sneeze, instantaneous and impossible to restrain. 

“Well,” Morgan said slowly, “That would be stupid because baby girl is the best they’ve got, but if they did I imagine she’d end up with the civilians. They’re doing manual labor. Laundry, vegetable gardens, stuff like that. It isn’t too bad. Honestly, I’d rather have her doing that than joining us on a patrol. She isn’t field certified.”

“Of course,” Spencer said, and something tight in his chest eased a little. 

“Don’t worry so much, kid. Go back to sleep.” 

Spencer did. 

A few nights later it happened again. 

“JJ and Will don’t patrol together, do they?”

“No kid. Henry’s not going to end up an orphan. One of them is always secure on base while the other is out on patrol. Don’t worry, you and Garcia won’t end up guardians any time soon.” 

For a second, Spencer thought it was going to work and the panic was going to evaporate the way it had the last time when Morgan offered him reassurance. Instead, he seized up, an even worse idea occurring to him. 

“You don’t go out alone, do you?”

“Of course not. Patrols are always teams of five.” 

“So you go with those marines?”

Morgan didn’t say anything for a long moment. Knowing he would never fall asleep in the middle of a conversation made the pause particularly disquieting. He was crafting his answer to sooth Spencer, not giving him the unvarnished truth. “They aren’t all bad guys.” 

“Of course they aren’t,” Spencer agreed quickly. “But you’re as familiar with group psychology as I am, especially as it applies to a militarized cult of personality.” 

“Yeah, Reid, I am, but I don’t want you worrying about that. I usually go out with Will, and Hotch usually goes out with JJ, but it’s not something we try to make a point about. There are plenty of people from other agencies folded into the command here. Will and I are just as likely to do a patrol with all former FBI as we are to end up with marines on our team, but either way, the only danger out in the field is a bite. The line’s gotten real clear now, pretty boy. Out in the field, anyone who’s alive is on my team.” 

It should have been good enough. Spencer wanted to be reassured. Unfortunately, he couldn’t stop worrying. “You know it isn’t that simple,” he said softly. 

“I do.” Morgan’s mattress creaked in the darkness. The bunk shifted. Usually Morgan slept in a relatively stationary manner on his back, shifting on average two to three times during the course of the night, almost never going so far as to roll completely onto his side. The beds were too narrow for anything else, really, but Spencer knew it was also just his sleep pattern. They had shared too many planes and hotel rooms over the years for Spencer to think he would be anything like a rough sleeper under other circumstances. For him to move around as much as he clearly was in the darkness indicated distress. 

The gentle push and Morgan’s soft, “Move over,” forced Spencer to reevaluate his conclusion. There had been distress. Morgan had not been the one experiencing it. Spencer pressed his body against the wall to make as much room as he could, Morgan’s warm weight settling against him and easing his panic. 

“I’m here,” Morgan murmured. “What happened to Blake and Rossi was a tragedy, but the rest of us aren’t going anywhere.” 

Spencer nodded. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want Morgan to leave. 

“Now shut up and go to sleep,” Morgan said kindly. “I have a patrol in four hours.” 

Somehow that worked. Wedged against the wall, in a bed that was far too small for two men who both topped six feet, flattened beneath the weight of Derek Morgan, Spencer felt safer and more comfortable than he had in a year. When he slept, it was deeply and well. He didn’t even wake until Derek was already up, dressing silently in the predawn light that filtered down from the tiny square window, clearly trying to avoid disturbing Spencer.

Opening his eyes, but taking advantage of the comfortable lassitude in his limbs, Spencer watched Morgan pull a shirt over his head, tucking it carefully into his belt. Almost a year after what some might call the fall of civilization, Derek Morgan still took pride in his appearance. Spencer smiled.

“Hey,” Derek said, noticing him. “I have to go, but you should stay right there. If you can sleep through that six am bell, you probably need the sleep.” 

For once, Spencer didn’t try to break a moment by speaking. He just continued to enjoy the peaceful, rested feeling. Part of him wanted to thank Morgan, explain his anxieties, make some excuse for his needy behavior, but Derek didn’t need any of that. Derek was his friend. 

“Yeah,” he said softly, matching Spencer’s smile. “You’re out of it. Go back to sleep, pretty boy.” Absently, he bent down to press his lips to Spencer’s forehead. It was an unusual gesture between the two of them, but likely habit for Morgan with someone he’d shared a bed with. And it was innocent. Brief and platonic, it was a simple motion on Morgan’s part as he made his way out the door. The hand Spencer placed on his cheek, stopping him from straightening up was likely less so. No real defense could be made for the way Spencer rose from the mattress in one fluid movement to press his own lips against Derek’s. His action might have been just as gentle, but there was nothing innocent about it. 

Derek’s eyes were dark, searching Spencer’s curiously in the gray light of morning. Spencer would have to say something, explain, apologize, thank, except it still seemed unnecessary. Surging forward, Derek captured his mouth eagerly. He was so warm. Spencer could taste mint on his tongue and in the back of his mind regretted that his own mouth surely tasted sour in comparison. The observation was unimportant, however, as Derek seemed to thoroughly enjoy delving deeply to explore whatever flavor it was that he found. 

“I really do have to go,” he said, pulling away to stand up. Morgan was practically pressed against the wall, but Spencer didn’t read too much into the two feet of space between them. It was clearly a function of the size of the room, not Morgan’s feelings about the kiss. “You going to be around tonight?” 

“Given that I’m working on a virus that has stymied the world’s best scientists for the better part of a year, it’s highly unlikely that I’ll have the sort of a breakthrough that necessitates going entirely without sleep.” Though Spencer was respected in the labs for his outsider perspective, and he did think new ideas were worth pursuing. As far as he knew no one had even considered the protein deficiency exhibited by subjects immediately after reanimation to be anything other than a symptom. 

“Uh huh,” Morgan said. “I know that look. Did you just figure out a cure for the zombies, kid?”

“What? No, of course not. I just have to get to the lab. You’re amazing. Sleep is amazing. I’ll see you later.” Quickly pressing a final kiss to Morgan’s mouth, Spencer stuffed his feet into his shoes and rushed over to the research building. It was a warm enough day for early October, and Doctor Park was kind enough to toss him a lab coat to cover his pajamas. Apparently failure to follow a dress code was not considered a violation by the marines, which was lucky because Spencer needed to get to work immediately.


	4. Symptomatic

“I don’t think of all the misery, but of the beauty that still remains.” - Anne Frank 

In other circumstances, kissing Morgan might have lead to a certain amount of existential angst. Derek Morgan was a good looking, athletic, popular FBI agent, and Spencer Reid was a gangly, awkward, off putting profiler. However, given that the world had ended long before that morning, Spencer decided not to dwell. Focusing mainly on the task at hand, he did his best not to let his thoughts wander toward Derek any more than was usual. Given that he tended to spend a large portion of every day worrying about his teammates, he allotted a small percentage of that time to worrying about whether or not the guy who’d been prom king would want to date the guy who’d been most likely to be beaten up under the bleachers. Mostly, however, Reid worried about how best to document the onset of protein deficiency in recently infected cells. 

When Morgan turned up in the lab, Spencer was a surprised to see him. Apparently the suggestion to meet later had not been a polite nicety. “You eat yet, pretty boy?” he asked, leaning against the door frame like a model on a photo shoot. 

“Just coffee and cornbread,” Spencer said. “Is it lunchtime?” No critical experiments had been started, and though it felt rude to leave Doctor Park while they were planning a study together, he wanted to spend time with Morgan. Not that they were likely to kiss again. Morgan probably wanted to explain that it had been a stress reaction due to close quarters and prolonged exposure. To which Spencer would reply with complete understanding and a joke about situational homosexuality and the Kinsey surveys. Then they would both laugh and things would go back to normal. Spencer was a little disappointed, but it was certainly in the best interests of their friendship to avoid complications. 

“Lunchtime was five hours ago,” Doctor Park said helpfully. “Remember when I said I was going to the mess and asked if you wanted anything?”

“Ah. Yes. Thank you again for the coffee.” 

Morgan laughed. “Come on, genius. Let’s fuel you up.” 

Leaning against the arm around his shoulders, Spencer made one quick final note before shucking his lab coat and allowing Morgan to shepherd him out of the research building. 

Walking outside after dark was a little unnerving. Spencer knew that regular watches were stationed around a heavily guarded perimeter established by thick wooden fences and barbed wire, but that didn’t preclude the possibility of an infected corpse somehow making it inside and wandering in the dark with them. He shifted a little closer to Morgan, wishing he was wearing something other than his pajamas, wishing he was carrying a gun. It was ridiculous to worry about things that couldn’t be changed, but he’d consider a number of morally deficient trade offs for a single street lamp. Electricity was strictly rationed, and lighting pathways between the buildings was considered a waste. The former FBI agents were entirely dependent on the gibbous moon to light the way. Spencer blamed the poor illumination for not noticing more quickly. 

“We’re not heading to the mess?”

“Nope.” In the dark Morgan’s smile was a bright white flicker, like moonrise. He unlocked the side door of the medical clinic like it was a secret, carefully closing it behind Spencer and flipping the deadbolt. They wouldn’t be alone in the building, but the skeleton crew on duty in the front lobby would have no way to detect their presence. It felt illicit and a little rebellious. Not unlike what Spencer imagined dating a prom king would have felt like when he was skipping too many grades to socialize. Taking his hand, Morgan led the way up a dark stairwell. Spencer no longer believed that Morgan intended to rationalize away their kiss. 

The shadowy figure at the top of the stairwell was not a zombie. Spencer could tell that much from the man’s military posture and the fact that he was holding a rifle. The only thing the reanimated held onto was living human tissue. There had actually been a number of fascinating studies done during the early months of the outbreak regarding how and why hosts were able to discriminate among targets to pick out human beings. In the end, however, it wasn’t really that different from the method Spencer used to identify a soldier in the dark. 

“Good evening gentlemen,” Will said, in the Louisiana cadence that he shared with no one else left alive in Quantico. “I trust you didn’t have any trouble making your way up here?” 

“No, man,” Morgan said. It was too dark to see the smile, but Spencer could hear it in his voice. “Thanks again for doing this. I owe you one.” 

“Please, son. The number of times you’ve helped me and JJ find a little privacy, I’ll still be paying you back after the second coming.” Will popped open a roof access hatch, letting moonlight illuminate the steel ladder built into the wall. 

“After you, pretty boy,” Morgan said, gesturing for Spencer to lead the way. 

While he lacked preconceptions about what he would find on the rooftop of a medical building in the middle of a bastion of military resistance after the fall of civilization, Spencer was still amazed and more than a little charmed. Stopping at the top of the ladder, he gaped vacantly at the picturesque scene just waiting to be populated by a pair of lovers. Somehow, Derek had managed to put together what looked like the platonic ideal of a picnic, excepting, of course, grass in place of the concrete roof. From the red checked flannel blanket, to the wicker basket, to the gentle glow of an LED lantern, it was clear that he’d put an enormous amount of effort into every aspect of planning. 

“Wine?” he offered, kneeling on the blanket to pour two glasses of something deep and red. Where had he found actual wine glasses? Though given that supply salvage was one of the tasks assigned to patrol teams, maybe glassware wasn’t as scarce as Spencer knew the deep, aromatic wine had to be. 

“Do we toast?” Spencer asked, accepting the drink and sitting down carefully, nervous around Derek Morgan for the first time in years. 

“Sure man.” Derek smiled, leaning to one side so he could stretch his legs out. Lifting his glass casually, he said, “To joy where we find it, and all the little things that make life worth living.” 

Clinking his glass awkwardly against Derek’s, Spencer cast about for something interesting to say. “Did you know that the term toasting comes from a cooked bread that party goers in early Britain would float in a communal cup passed among celebrants? It was symbolically consumed by the host after all of the guests drank in an expression of camaraderie.”

Laughing, Derek opened the picnic basket. “I’ve got bread here. If you want to dip it in your wine go right ahead. I won’t judge.” 

Spencer kicked him. “That’s not what I was saying.” 

“I know.” Derek popped a grape in his mouth and grinned cockily. Spencer stole a few from the bunch he deposited on the blanket. Fresh fruit wasn’t plentiful, and they were good. Ripe and sweet, bursting open at the slightest touch of a tooth. 

“Where do you and JJ find this stuff? I never see anything but apples and carrot sticks in the mess hall, but we had oranges at family dinner last week and here you are with grapes.” 

“Kid, if you wait until the masses have their chance to pick over everything, you’ll never get the prime cuts.” Derek smirked flirtatiously and ate another grape. Spencer wondered if the innuendo was intentional, which seemed likely. If it was, surely the appropriate response would be to flirt back in a similar fashion. Unfortunately, Spencer had never been particularly adept at flirting. Pretty much everything he knew about the subject had come from Derek initially. Still, it was worth a shot. 

“Then I’m lucky to have you looking out for me,” he said, looking deeply into Derek’s eyes to misdirect him as Spencer palmed the entire bunch of grapes. 

Smiling sweetly, Derek looked down to reply, then darted a glance back up at Spencer, clearly surprised to discover all of his grapes missing. 

“But you know it goes both ways,” he added, taking Derek’s wrist gently in one hand and pulling the fruit from his sleeve. Derek laughed. 

“Oh, so you’re using the magic on me now?” 

“I’ve been reliably informed that it’s charming.” 

“Well someone gave you good advice,” Derek said, leaning over to kiss him all too briefly before pulling more food out of the picnic basket. “You are absolutely charming, but eat up, because you’re also way too skinny.” 

Laughing, Spencer obeyed. The food was good. Fresh in a way that even the food JJ put together for their team dinners wasn’t always. The bread was soft and still warm, with real butter that melted just a little as it spread so easily against the thin slices Derek cut. He’d also found real beef and fresh vegetables for grilled kebabs somewhere. They were tender and just a little spicy. Derek twirled them as he ate, doing incredibly flirtatious things with his mouth. Spencer was positive that mimicking the behavior would make him look ridiculous, so he did a few more magic tricks and tried not to talk about anything too awkward or work related. 

Conversation got a lot easier when Derek casually mentioned the beauty of the night sky. “I can’t remember the last time I did a little stargazing, but it’s incredible up here. I bet you know all about them, too.” He pointed toward the brightest star on the western horizon and said, “What can you tell me about that one?”

“Deneb? It’s the nineteenth brightest star in our night sky.” Derek laughed, whether at the fact that Spencer knew the name of the randomly selected star or that the ranking system for luminosity was so exacting was unclear. However, he seemed to be enjoying himself, so Spencer continued. “It’s actually part of two constellations. Cygnus the swan and the Summer Triangle.”

“Should we still be able to see it? We’re in October as of yesterday. Pretty sure that means we passed the equinox a few days ago.” 

“That’s why it’s so far west right now. During the summer months we would find it directly overhead. By late November, it will be gone from the sky entirely.”

“It’s nice. That some things are still consistent even though the world’s gone crazy. Point it out to me,” Derek suggested, sliding closer. “I’ve got eyes on our buddy Deneb, but I’m not seeing a triangle.”

“Sure,” Spencer said, shivering a little at the heat of Derek’s body pressed against his side. “If you look up and to the right of Deneb, you’ll see Vega. Actually they’re paired by more than just the Summer Triangle. Vega is part of the constellation Lyra, or the Lyre. In some stories Orpheus is said to have been turned into a swan and set among the stars after his death. So he would be Cygnus and Lyra would be his lyre.”

“Orpheus is the guy who went into the Underworld to rescue his wife by giving a concert, right?”

“Yeah. That’s him.” 

“I always thought that story was romantic. Risking everything for love. Even the moral is a good one.” 

“What? To obey the arbitrary stipulations of the gods on blind faith or lose everything?”

“No, man. Don’t look back.” Derek took Spencer’s chin in one strong hand and kissed him again. His other hand slid down to Spencer’s waist, drawing across the plane of his stomach to slip under his shirt. He’d kissed people before, and enjoyed it. He wasn’t inexperienced. But it was always so different with someone he cared about. A clawing, insistent need took hold of him, driving away rational thought, twisting his stomach and amplifying every sensation. Acts that should have been simple became impossible and also more necessary than breathing. Worse, he knew the smallest mistake would end this, stop Derek before anything happened. Whenever he was with someone who really mattered, someone who sent his endocrine system into overdrive, there was always a part of him worrying away. How much tongue was too much, was it possible to not use enough? What on earth was he supposed to do with his hands? 

Derek didn’t seem to notice, at least, just kept kissing him, holding him steady, tilting his chin to kiss along his jaw and then his throat. His neck just below his ear. And that was - that was even better than the hand stroking the skin of his abdomen. Spencer couldn’t seem to catch his breath and an awkward little noise came from his mouth. Derek nipped him gently and the little noise turned into a much more emphatic expression. 

“I’m still wearing my pajamas,” Spencer said, because he didn’t know what to do with his hands and his ridiculously awkward noises. Derek had shaved. Derek was wearing cologne. Derek’s hands knew exactly what they were doing. 

“We can fix that.” He grinned, pulling Spencer’s shirt off over his head and tossing it to one side. Then, burying his fingers in Spencer’s hair and cradling his skull, he returned his attention to kissing Spencer’s wanting, empty mouth. Kissing was good. Kissing was phenomenal. Sucking on Derek’s tongue while Derek’s insistent hands lifted Spencer’s hips and pushed the loose cotton of his pajama pants away was probably the most singularly enjoyable thing Spencer had ever done. And it gave him an idea of what to do with his hands. Because turnabout had to be fair play, he fumbled with the buttons of Morgan’s shirt. When he finished with them, Derek helpfully shed the garment along with his undershirt before moving his attentions to the crook of Spencer’s neck and one of his hands to Spencer’s dick. 

Instantly Derek’s hands were flat against the blanket and there was a foot of space between them. Spencer wanted to close the distance with another kiss, but he wasn’t sure why Derek had pulled away in the first place. 

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked before he could think better of the phrasing. Of course he had done something wrong. What he needed to know was if there was a way to correct the error. What he needed was to be much, much closer to Derek.

“That’s my line pretty boy,” Derek said. His face was perfectly calm and he was maintaining eye contact, which meant he couldn’t be too upset. “Did I just hit the gas too fast, or did I misread this whole situation?” 

Naturally Derek would be extremely sensitive to the issue of consent, and any action on Spencer’s part that signified hesitance would raise questions in his mind. Every muscle in his body tensing at a hand on his penis probably qualified as hesitant. It would be disingenuous to feign misunderstanding.

“Probably the first,” Spencer admitted, trying to smile. “I don’t want to stop, though. I mean, of course, if you don’t want to continue, obviously I would be fine with that, but if you did want to keep going then I definitely want to keep going.” 

Stopping the outpouring of babble with a quick kiss, Derek said. “I want you.” That was more than okay. The low cadence of his voice was indicative of arousal, as was the evident bulge in his slacks. There was still a chance of continuing. Spencer reached for another kiss, but Derek took his hand and held it. “Tell me what’s going on in that big brain of yours first.” 

“Nothing! Well not nothing, obviously, but. As you know, I don’t do this very often. Especially not with someone like you.” Spencer wanted to bang his head against the wall. Or possibly jump off the roof. Hiding under the picnic blanket was also an option. Talking was the worst, and he’d just significantly diminished any chance that they would return to kissing ever. 

“Someone like me?” Derek smiled. He was clearly laughing at Spencer’s lack of finesse, which was absolutely the best case scenario. 

Do not say experienced, Spencer thought firmly. Do not make reference to sexual history. Avoid mentioning the vast number of people who would and have made better partners for him, and you might actually get to be one of those partners. Do not screw this up any more than you already have. 

“You know, stupidly handsome.” Derek did laugh at that. Out loud even. It gave Spencer the wherewithal to continue. “I don’t usually find conventionally attractive people appealing.” A truthful statement, and yet utterly appalling. Spencer froze. There was no good way to backtrack to a time before he’d called Derek unappealing. 

“So you’re not attracted to me.” That sounded bad, but Spencer couldn’t read his expression because Derek was unbuckling his belt. Spencer couldn’t possibly be expected to look away from the line of muscle that was exposed as he unbuttoned his fly. 

“Do you want oral sex?” Spencer didn’t even know what conversation they were having anymore. His mouth was dry. Morgan finished undressing calmly, exposing muscles that a grecian sculptor could only have dreamed about and perfectly smooth skin that begged to be touched. Given the generally preferred status of oral sex, Spencer thought he could probably bumble his way through it without doing anything too foolish even with his meager experience. Hopefully it would be less embarrassing than orgasming the second Morgan touched his penis, which he’d barely managed to avoid once already. 

“I thought you weren’t attracted to me,” Derek said, leaning close. 

“Please. Now you’re just fishing for compliments.” 

Laughing again, Derek finally put his hands back on Spencer, pulling him close, holding his bony, gangly body in those broad, muscular arms. Finally they were kissing again, Derek’s hands sliding eagerly over his back, Spencer’s legs spreading automatically so that they could be closer together. They needed to be so much closer together.

“Seriously.” Derek broke the kiss, but didn’t pull away too much. One of his hands was at the nape of Spencer’s neck, stroking the hair there gently. The other was on his ass. Spencer didn’t think he’d made another mistake, but Derek was breathing heavily instead of kissing him and he wasn’t in full control of his faculties. 

“I can be serious,” Spencer said, nodding frantically, almost headbutting Derek. 

Derek pressed his lips together tightly. It was a brief expression, but he even went so far as to bite his lower lip. Just for a second. Morgan was nervous. Morgan didn’t want to risk their friendship or rejection. Morgan had spent hours arranging a perfect date. That changed everything. “Listen kid, we really don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do here. If you want to make out a little and talk about astronomy, I am totally here for that. There’s one more point on that triangle, right?”

“I think it’s your turn,” Spencer said. His heart was still fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird, but he felt calm. Confident. “Come on, Derek. Show me the stars.” 

Afterward, coming down from the roof, it was surprising how little had changed. On the days when they didn’t have dinner with the rest of the team, Derek would retrieve him from the lab anyway. They ate in the mess and retired to their rooms a little earlier than they might have in other circumstances. Spencer’s bunk was much too small for anything fancy or particularly athletic. There was no question of either one of them kneeling upright without banging his head on the top bunk. However, they were both intelligent, creative people, and they managed to make room to work. Spencer particularly enjoyed the fact that they were both tall enough to stand quite comfortably and suck the cock of someone seated on the top bunk. The regular rush of endorphins and oxytocin was most welcome, but even better was the way Derek tended to collapse on top of Spencer or fall asleep curled against him in the lower bunk. Spencer found it highly soporific, which in turn meant that he was also getting the best sleep of his life. Among other things. That were definitely also the best of his life. 

Being with Derek was amazing. Spencer had never suspected that a physical relationship could be so fulfilling, and his confidence followed him to the lab. As though they were really making progress on something promising for the first time since the beginning. The future didn’t look quite as bleak anymore. Blake had given her life so that the rest of them might survive, and so they would. Things would get better. Things were already getting better. Once they had a repellant to ward off the infected, they could rebuild everything that had been lost. That was what surviving was all about. 

Spencer should have known better than to hope. 

He wasn’t naive enough to completely ignore the warning signs. The regular addresses that General Smith gave on the grounds had already started to become mandatory for anyone not working in the labs or out on a patrol. Mostly these speeches were simple future focused propaganda to keep morale. When Spencer attended, he was always invited to stand at the front with the command officers. However, it was easy enough to parse the underlying message. Unity meant compliance. Resilience meant sacrifice. Planning for the future meant something even more sinister. 

“The bastards at the medical center won’t give me my birth control anymore. Part of the Great Leader’s glorious plan for the future, no doubt,” Garcia complained over dinner.

“Is it safe to rely on that stuff?” Morgan asked, sounding concerned. “It isn’t like there’s a drug company out there still producing it.” 

“Actually most medications retain up to ninety percent of their efficacy for almost a decade after the expiration date. Anything we have stockpiled should be fine. The doctors in the med center will know what to get rid of,” Spencer said helpfully. “We should actually be more concerned about condoms. Anything with spermicide is only good for about two years after the manufacturing date because it breaks down the latex. Even ordinary latex is only good for four or five years at most.”

“It isn’t like I’m sexually active these days anyway,” Garcia complained. “It’s been months. I just like to be prepared, and they’d rather have me popping out future soldiers or something.” 

“Funny,” JJ said, low and sarcastic. “They’re still giving me mine.” 

Will’s fork missed his potato and slammed into his plate with a loud crack. 

“Dad?” Henry’s blue eyes were wide and alarmed. 

“Sorry buddy,” Will said, ruffling his son’s hair. Spencer distracted him by pulling a carrot out of his nose, which went over very well with the under twelve crowd. Jack insisted on being the one to eat it. 

“I hate the way he looks at you,” Will mumbled, keeping his voice low so that they boys wouldn’t hear.

Studying JJ’s face carefully, Spencer asked, “Do you work closely with the general?”

“Most of the conventionally attractive women on the base are asked to consult closely with General Smith on one matter or another,” Hotch said dryly. 

“Yes,” JJ said, “but I can handle it. I’m a married woman. That still means something.”

“I know, baby,” Will said, taking her hand apologetically. 

Spencer looked down at his plate. What the institution of marriage meant to JJ and what it meant to the general were likely very different things. It didn’t take a genius to see that. “Maybe we shouldn’t stay here,” he suggested quietly.

“Where would we go, Spence?” JJ asked with quiet exasperation in her voice. “We know for a fact that every survivor within two hundred miles is holed up here and we know nothing at all about the world beyond that. Garcia, when was the last time you heard anything in communications.” 

“The George Washington checked in last week,” she said promptly. “Their complement is down to a thousand after their most recent resupply mission, which, spoiler alert, did not go well. Still, they’ve got fuel and food to keep going at sea for quite a while and after that fiasco they’re in no hurry to return to land, like, ever.” 

“And anyone else,” JJ pressed. “Have any other ships at sea or military bases made contact in the last month?”

“No,” Garcia admitted. “Not even with the many brilliant modifications I’ve made to improve our communications systems. But I think we should stipulate that some of that could be related to the Generalissimo's policies on contact messages. He’s really hard line about the resources in exchange for safety thing.” 

“I agree with JJ,” Hotch said. “If she says she can handle the general’s advances, then we should trust her. Right now it’s better for us all to stick together and try to find a cure. We can worry about the human questions later.” 

The damning thing was, Spencer knew better. They all knew better than to blindly trust in basic human decency. He didn’t argue further because he was happy. None of them wanted to act because they felt safe. It was a mistake they would all regret for years to come.


	5. Reaction

“Alive or dead, the truth won’t rest. Rise up while you can.” – Mira Grant

Will died on October 30th. 

When Morgan came to get Spencer from the lab it was far too early for dinner. Despite his deep affection, Spencer thought it would be best to make a token objection. He couldn’t just skip out in the middle of the day. Not when research into the potential repellent was going so well. “If this is about the one year survival party tomorrow, can we talk about it later?” 

“It isn’t,” Morgan said, stone faced and serious. Spencer felt his smile fall away. 

“Who?” he whispered. There was no need to ask what had happened.

“Will. While he was on patrol. They brought his body back to be cremated. JJ’s with it in the medical center right now.”

Sprinting out of the room, Spencer trusted that Morgan would catch up as he raced across the lawn to the clinic. The marines didn’t stop him at the door. Inside, a doctor that Spencer vaguely recognized from the the forensics department of lab services back at the academy directed him down the hall. He couldn’t remember the guy’s name. He wasn’t sure they’d ever actually met. It seemed strangely important for a moment, but he pushed on, looking for JJ. 

She was crying. Of course she was crying, the corpse with the mangled face, GSW to the back of the head, bitten torso, was Will. Her husband was dead. Wrapping his arms around her, Spencer held her close, steadying her against the sobs that wracked her small frame. Hotch was there. Then Morgan and Garcia were there. Spencer just kept holding JJ, stroking her hair, letting her know she wasn’t alone. Finally, however, it needed to be said. 

Looking around quickly, Spencer made sure that the only people in the room were on his team. It was a little unusual to find that they were safe. What kind of a medical examiner left a family alone with a body? Either the man was disgusted by the lie, or he was contemptuous of their grief. It didn’t really matter, since he was a liar and couldn’t be trusted. 

“Hotch, judging from the shape and lack of bleeding, those bite marks were inflicted post mortem, and not by a human mouth.” 

“I know,” Hotch said quietly. “I’m no ME, but it’s fairly obvious.”

“What?” With great effort JJ lifted her head from Spencer’s chest, her red, swollen eyes blinking with confusion. 

“They look canine to me, though obviously a more thorough examination would be necessary to make a precise determination. Still, I think we can say with certainty that what happened here was not the zombie infection. Someone shot Will and then set animals on the corpse.”

“Dogs?” JJ still looked like she was barely tracking. “I’ve had nightmares about dogs ever since…”

“I think we both have nightmares about Tobias Hankle,” Spencer said, trying to smile and giving her a friendly squeeze when he couldn’t quite manage it. 

“This, this is my fault,” she said, her beautiful face twisting into a frown as she pulled away from Spencer to wrap her arms around her own chest. 

“No,” Hotch said firmly.

“Jay-j.” Garcia’s voice was soft and kind. She put a gentle hand on JJ’s shoulder, which was immediately shrugged away. “You can’t possibly think any part of this is on you.”

“You don’t understand!” JJ’s eyes were wild even as her posture became more tense. “He did this!”

“Keep your voice down,” Hotch ordered, low and steady, seemingly unaffected by JJ’s outburst or their dead friend. “If you want to blame a member of this team for failing to anticipate a dramatic escalation of our situation, blame me. I was just as vocal as you were about remaining here, and I wasn’t the one personally at risk. You thought you were gambling your own safety by staying. I knew that the team was in danger and I chose not to act.” 

“Forget that,” Morgan said. “We all know that there are two people responsible for this: the man who pulled the trigger and the man who ordered it. So what are we going to do about it?” 

“Can we leave?” Spencer hated the way his voice sounded, frail and fragile, like a little boy. He was an FBI agent. Will had been a friend. He had taken an oath to uphold the law. Their duty was to make sure justice was served, but Spencer couldn’t see a way to do that other than an assassination. If that didn’t completely destabilize the community, it would at least create a power vacuum that would be a struggle to fill. It would be Hotch’s duty to try to step into that role. More people would die. Odds were high that at least a few of those people would be ones he loved. It didn’t seem worth it. 

“JJ?” Hotch’s voice was steady and compassionate. If she wanted revenge, they were going to stay and make sure she got it. No matter the cost.

“Yeah,” she nodded, uncoiling a little to take Spencer by the hand. “Yeah, you’re right. If you want to go, Spence, we’ll go.”

“Right,” Hotch said. “Morgan, Garcia, you know what to do. JJ, go get the boys. We meet at the north fence in an hour. Reid, I’ve already felt out the majority of our former bureau colleagues here on base. None of them were interested in leaving and we don’t have time to ask them to reassess given this new development. However, if there is anyone on your research team that you wanted to ask to accompany us, I trust you to approach them carefully and quietly.” 

“Speaking of, boss man,” Garcia interrupted, “Kevin’s mentioned the little talk the two of you had more than once to me. Always dismissively, in kind of the same tone he uses when he talks about our breakup, as a matter of fact. We should be prepared for any secret plans to be a little less secret.”

“Understood.”

“An alarming number of American men tend to fetishize East Asian women due to perceptions of cultural submission.” Spencer was having trouble processing everything that was happening, but Hotch nodded as though that made sense in context.

“Go speak with Doctor Park. Morgan will grab your go bag.” 

“You’ve been planning this for a while,” Spencer said. He wanted to soften the words with a question, but he didn’t. 

“We all knew from our first day here that this situation could turn ugly fast. I owed it to all of you to prepare for that eventuality. I didn’t involve you because you had more important concerns. Trust me, though, Reid. There was never a scenario where we left without you. The north fence in one hour, Reid. If you’re late, one of us will have to come and get you.”

Nodding, Spencer turned and left the room. Will was dead. Blake was dead. Rossi was dead. His mother was dead. Hotch was just doing what he felt was necessary to keep the rest of them alive while Spencer wasted time playing scientist. He didn’t run, but somehow he found himself back in the research building, in a lab where Doctor Bundt, Doctor Park, and Doctor Patel were working. 

“Are you okay?” The moment he entered, Doctor Park dropped her clipboard onto the table and turned toward him. 

“My friend is dead,” he said. “Will. JJ’s husband Will is dead.” 

“What are you doing back here?” Doctor Bundt scolded, taking him by the arm in a matronly fashion. “You’re grieving, silly boy.” 

“Let’s go outside and get some air,” Doctor Park suggested. 

“I’ll keep an eye on things here,” Doctor Patel said, nodding disinterestedly at their experiment. “I’m sorry for your loss.” 

Following the women, it occurred to Spencer that he could not have engineered a better way to get them away from the marines if he’d tried. When they were out on the lawn, safely out of earshot, Spencer said, “He was murdered.”

Park and Bundt exchanged a look. “Agent Jareau is a very beautiful woman,” Bundt said neutrally. “The general has an eye for beautiful women.” 

“Tell me about it,” Park grumbled. “I knew he didn’t take no for an answer, but I didn’t think he’d go this far.” 

“How far has he gone with you?” Spencer asked, studying her face. She looked down and away, a clear deflection. 

“What do you need?” Doctor Bundt asked. “We’re here for you, of course, but trying to get at the general is futile.” 

“I’m leaving,” he said. “My team is leaving. It’s not safe here. You should come with us.” 

The women looked surprised. “Where will you go?” Park asked.

“Away from here.” Spencer was aware that this was not helpful information. “If there’s a planned destination, I don’t know it, but we’re safer with a small trusted group than we are trying to navigate this society.” 

For a long moment no one said anything. A cool autumn breeze wafted across the neatly mown green grass, whipping a few dandelion seeds off toward the barbed wire perimeter fence. Spencer should have known long ago that the man was unstable. What kind of leader prioritized the maintenance of turf grass when building a self sustaining community?

“Well, I’ll miss you,” Doctor Bundt said, breaking the silence. “Unfortunately, I need to continue my research. The personnel and equipment here are my best chance to do that, and the personal risk to me is negligible. These aren’t the sort of men to savage an old woman, not if I’m compliant.” 

Park took a deep breath, looking out over the lawn at the barbed wire fence. “I’ll go. My value to the research team has kept him from forcing the issue up to this point, but I need to get the hell out of here before that changes.” 

Reaching out, Bundt wrapped her in a tight embrace. “I won’t even complain that you’re leaving me as the only woman in the lab,” she murmured. Turning to Spencer, she hugged him as well. Where she and Park had embraced cheek to cheek, with Spencer, her head rested briefly against his chest. “Take care of each other.” 

“We’ll take care of each other,” he promised quietly.

Nodding, she turned away from them both, offering no further farewells before walking back across the green, well tended lawn to the state of the art research facility alone. 

“Do I have time to get a bag from my room?” Park asked. 

“Yes,” Spencer said warily. Trust was important, but there was too much at stake to take a foolish risk. “Wouldn’t it be a little suspicious for us to go to the barracks together, though?” 

Smiling, Doctor Park slipped into his personal space, wrapping an arm around his waist and looping one of his across her shoulders. “Not at all, baby. You’re having such a rough day.”

She was right. The marines on duty playing cards outside of their living quarters didn’t look up or blink when they entered the building in the middle of the day, despite the fact that it contained nothing but beds and communal bathrooms. The only attention they attracted was upon leaving when Spencer was carrying Park’s go bag over his shoulder.

“What’s that?” one of the marines asked, glancing up from his cards with the barest hint of curiosity.

“There was a minor chemical spill in the lab,” Park said smoothly, “Doctor Bundt asked us to pick up a change of clothing for her.”

“Oh, thanks,” he said, looking back down to the cards. “Usually they make us do that stuff.” 

After that, it was almost too easy for the pair to make their way across the yard to the infrequently used maintenance garage that Spencer belatedly realized was the perfect staging ground for an escape from the compound. Sure enough, Hotch had two black SUVs from the former FBI motor pool packed full of supplies and stashed among the broken down vehicles in need of repair. 

“How did you manage this?” Spencer asked, watching Morgan loading an enormous water can into an already very full trunk.

“Now, now, my delicate sunflower,” Garcia answered, rolling out from under the other SUV on a creeper. “A magician never reveals her secrets. Suffice it to say, that these bad boys did belong here until approximately five minutes ago. Why hello there,” she added, standing up and pulling off the oil stained work gloves she was wearing. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

“Evelyn Park,” she said, “But please call me Lynn, everyone does.”

“I don’t,” Spencer said.

“Well, Doctor Reid, any time you want to start is fine by me.”

“Then you should call me Spencer, not Doctor Reid.” 

Garcia laughed. “In that case, I’m Penelope, and we, my friends, are ready to go.” She nodded to Hotch and JJ, who were leading the boys into the garage through a side door. 

“Here you go, man.” Spencer looked down at the holster brushing his elbow and the glock in Morgan’s hand. Nodding once, he quickly shrugged on the holster and buckled it as per regulations. Then he took the gun, checked it, and put it away. It was heavy. The first time he’d been armed in months. A final acknowledgement that the people they were living with were the real danger. 

“How disappointing.” Morgan, Hotch, and JJ all had their guns up and aimed the second Major Freeman spoke, so Spencer followed suit, but he wasn’t sure he saw the point. There were four marines preceding her into the garage. They weren’t technically outnumbered, but they were certainly outgunned. The marines were all carrying machine guns. For a long moment, the only sound was the click of the major’s heels against the cement floor. One, two, three, four, five steps, and then she stopped, still a sensible distance behind the marines. She had a hand gun, not an M-16. She was still the most dangerous member of the group. “I was expecting your team to try something, but running away in the middle of the day? Not even waiting until nightfall? Sloppy.” 

“We knew the general wouldn’t have the grace to allow JJ to mourn,” Hotch said, “but we thought we might at least have a few hours.”

“Mourn?” the major arched an eyebrow. “If you were lighting candles and honoring the fallen, I would be the first to join you, but this doesn’t look like mourning to me.” 

“You murdered my husband.” JJ’s gun was steady. Her voice was low and dangerous. Spencer didn’t think they were going to talk their way out of the garage. 

“Your piece of shit husband should have been honored to share his wife with the general,” spat a red faced marine. He was sweating and his pupils were dilated. It was a little surprising that they didn’t see more drug use among the marines, but Spencer was starting to realize that the most likely reason for that was that he hadn’t been looking. “He begged like a little bitch before I put him down.” 

Spencer could hear JJ’s sharp inhalation and he knew the only reason she didn’t take the shot immediately was the little boy huddled in Garcia’s protective arms. JJ wouldn’t take a risk with Henry in the line of fire. 

“We can all agree that mistakes were made, but leaving is suicide,” Major Freeman said calmly. “You have nowhere to go.”

“To stay is to give up all rights to self determination and autonomy,” Hotch said. “I won’t raise my son to be a prisoner.” 

Talking was futile. Spencer moved his gun from one of the marines to the only viable target in the room. 

“What the hell, Reid,” Morgan yelped. “Get that gun away from your head.” The metal was cool against his temple, almost soothing. Spencer wasn’t afraid. 

“Yes,” the major agreed quickly. “Please don’t do anything rash, Doctor.” 

“You know about my work on the repellent with Bundt, Patel, and Park,” Spencer said, locking eyes with her. She nodded slowly. “We’re close to a breakthrough. Let my friends leave and I’ll go back to work.” 

“And if I don’t?” Major Freeman’s words were casual, but she didn’t blink or look away.

“Then I’ll blow my brains out.” Just as Blake had done, to protect the team, to protect his family, or what remained of it. 

“I think you’re bluffing.”

“I’m not. It’s basic game theory. I’ll kill myself to show how serious we are. Then JJ will repeat the maneuver, threatening to take her own life unless you release the others retaining her. If you force her hand, Doctor Park will take up the role. Any one of us alive is far more valuable to you than the others dead or otherwise. Keeping any one of us here should be worth more to you than trying to hold on to suicidal assets.” 

“And you’d do that?” she asked, her eyes flicking to JJ and Park. “You’d go that far to protect each other?” 

“In a heartbeat,” JJ said firmly. “Though I wish you’d let me go first, Spence.” 

“Henry needs you.” It was a simple calculation. Whether Spencer had to die or to remain behind to protect the others, he was the most expendable member of the team. 

“And you?” Freeman looked at Doctor Park, who wasn’t really part of the family yet. She barely even knew anyone in the garage except for Spencer. 

“Yes,” she said quietly, with a strange kind of wonder in her voice, as though she had only just realized something about herself. “Better to die at my own hand than to be pawed over by that man. Better that some of us go free, no matter the consequences. If the human race is to survive, I won’t let history remember him as the one who made it happen. Not with the tactics he uses.” 

The major’s mouth twitched, just a little at the corner. That was the only warning they had before she shot two of the marines. Immediately, JJ put two bullets through the brain of the man who had admitted to killing her husband. Hotch and Morgan both hit the fourth marine before he managed to act. Six bullets fired in three seconds, four men down with perfect headshots that utterly negated their body armor. Spencer blinked, slowly lowering his gun to point at the floor, staring at the major as he did so. 

“I’m pregnant,” she said, raising her gun parallel to her face and looking to Hotch. 

“You’re more than welcome to come along,” he said, ignoring the bodies on the floor. 

Somehow she wound up in the passenger seat of the SUV Morgan was driving. Spencer sat in the back next to Doctor Park. Hotch and JJ lead the way in the other vehicle, with Penelope and the boys in the back. “What are we going to do about the fence?” Spencer asked belatedly as they drove out of the garage and along the fenced off street. It was only wood and barbed wire, but removing it would take time and driving through it could seriously damage one of the vehicles. 

“Not to worry,” Morgan said smirking. He pulled over, turning off the engine, and hopping out of the car just as Hotch was doing in the forward SUV. Together, they lifted a large section of the fence that had been carefully cut away, and moved it to one side. 

“That compromises the security of the base,” Freeman said neutrally. 

“They’ll padlock it back on once we’re through,” Spencer said, though he didn’t like the thought of infected making it through a hole in the fence no one knew about and attacking the civilians on the base any more than she did. 

Mimicking JJ’s movements in the other car, Spencer got out and took the driver’s seat. Carefully he took the vehicle forward through the narrow gap as quietly as he could. After he turned the engine off, he took the keys and went back to check if Morgan and Hotch needed any help resecuring the fence. He trusted Lynn and Tamara completely, of course. He simply felt more comfortable handing Morgan the keys personally. Overall, he wasn’t going to feel completely comfortable until they were a long way from Quantico. 

Garcia got out of the other car and came to join them at the fence. Bending down, she put a small gadget in the center of the road, then stood up, taking a moment to gaze at the small buildings and the high flying American flag. It was only a fraction of Quantico, a small company town in a small state, but for all any of them knew, it was the last bastion of humanity. 

“What is that?” Spencer asked quietly, looking down at the little metal device. 

“Oh, just an alert,” she said, just as softly. “An original invention from yours truly and the ever so talented explosives expert Derek Morgan. Come six am tomorrow it’s going to smoke and flash like there’s hell to pay. Whoever comes to investigate will see the break in the fence and fix it.” 

Spencer smiled. He knew that his team would never jeopardize the safety of the civilians left behind with the general’s command just to ensure their own escape, but it was nice to know the exact plan. “Smart.” 

“Come on,” Hotch said. “We need to get on the road.” 

The car was completely silent as they edged along Anderson and onto Quick, passing the stadium. Morgan often talked about clearing out the stadium at family dinner. Apparently it was an attractive place for infected to swarm. Something about the echoes and the wide open spaces attracted them, enticed them with the prospect of humans to bite. Spencer kept his weapon in hand and his seatbelt buckled. 

Going down Barnett was even worse. It was bordered by big empty buildings. Spencer imagined zombies in every window. He wished Morgan would say something, but he wouldn’t risk distracting the driver. Just before turning onto Fuller, they skimmed through a corner of the town itself. That was worst of all. Zombies really did shuffle out of buildings to investigate their cars. Hotch sped up, just to twenty five miles an hour or so, and Morgan followed suit. At that speed, they were relatively safe even as they entered the forest. A collision wouldn’t be fatal, but a zombie couldn’t run them down. 

It was an hour before they made their way to the state highway, but they didn’t encounter any real obstacles. No one needed to fire a weapon. Spencer was finally able to relax as they headed north on a path that would give DC a wide berth. He didn’t know where they were going. He didn’t know if there was any kind of plan, but he trusted Hotch to lead and he trusted Morgan to drive. 

“Hey kid,” Morgan said, waking him some time later. It was dark, but he could still see Hotch’s tail lights up ahead. 

“Are we stopping for the night?” Spencer asked muzzily. 

“Too dangerous. We need to get distance from the general. We’ll set up camp when we have enough daylight to clear one properly, but we couldn’t risk doing that within a hundred miles of the base. There are still working pilots on that airfield, if he wanted to fly a search grid. It depends on how badly he wants to come after us, and how much of a spectacle he needs to make.”

“He should deny our leaving. If he makes it public knowledge, he risks other acts of defiance, at which point his reputation depends on recovering us. That would be very dangerous for everyone.” 

“There are F-15s on that airfield,” Major Freeman said. “If he decides to wipe us out we don’t have a chance.” 

“Would he really?” Park asked. “As Spencer pointed out, we’re much more valuable to him alive.”

That was technically true, but it required a level of reasoning that the general might not possess. The BAU had defied him. A narcissist in need of recognition might insist on setting an example. What had worked with the highly rational major would almost certainly not work with her manic leader, given his issues with power and control. Still, Spencer didn’t think it would be helpful to mention as much to Doctor Park and Major Freeman. There was nothing to be done about it now, and he truly believed that they were safer in a car driving away from the last pretense of civilization, in a wilderness surrounded by walking corpses, than they were living in the power of that man. 

“I’m sorry,” Morgan said softly. “I didn’t mean to wake everyone up and get you worrying.” 

“It was rude of us to fall asleep in the first place,” said Park, even though no conversation of any kind had been made since they left Quantico. Morgan needed to concentrate on driving, and Spencer suspected that Park and Freeman both needed a little space to think. Whether they regretted their choice or not, the fact was that they were taking an enormous risk with a group of people that they barely knew. 

“Why did you wake me?” Spencer asked. “Do you want me to drive for a little while? I’d be more than happy to.” 

“No, man. I just wanted to say happy Halloween.” Morgan gestured to the clock on the dashboard where the number 12:05 glowed an innocuous white. 

“One year today,” Spencer murmured. There had been nothing in Vetrov’s decoded journals to explain his selection of the day. As far as Spencer could tell, he’d selected it randomly. Maybe he hadn’t even been aware of the date’s significance as an American holiday, though that seemed unlikely given the obsessive nature of his personality. If it had appealed to his sense of humor, he hadn’t mentioned it in his personal journal. “It’s almost enough to make you believe in coincidence.” 

Tamara scoffed. “It’s enough to make you believe that General Asshole wanted to corner your friend at the celebration of his ego that starts in eight hours with mandatory festivities planned for the whole fucking day.” 

Derek huffed a small laugh. He sounded tired. “I wasn’t even thinking of it as the anniversary of the attack. It just so happens that I know it’s your favorite holiday.” He reached an arm back and handed Spencer a Snickers bar. “Trick or treat.” 

“Thank you.” Spencer laughed a little in surprise, accepting the gift. “But I think it may have lost a little of its appeal.”


End file.
